


all i ever see is myself

by hinataisnothim (afwrit)



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa Zero, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Flashbacks, Gen, Haircuts, Hinata Hajime and Kamukura Izuru Are Merged, Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito-centric, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Komahina isn't prevalent but the author was writing it through that lens, M/M, Mirrors, Post-Canon, Rated T for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24979237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afwrit/pseuds/hinataisnothim
Summary: self (n.): one's consciousness of one's own being or identity; the ego.-In which Hinata Hajime punches a mirror.
Relationships: Hinata Hajime & Kamukura Izuru, Hinata Hajime & Naegi Makoto, Hinata Hajime & Souda Kazuichi - Background, Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 16
Kudos: 226





	all i ever see is myself

**Author's Note:**

> this is my fanfiction so i get to decide the canon don't worry kodaka gave me permission
> 
> ultra despair girls and the anime didn't happen here, because if i see oven mitt komaeda one more time i'm going to scream
> 
> made with love, enjoy <3

The former Future Foundation research lab was cold. 

During the day, Hajime could treasure the natural warmth of the island. He caught himself lingering in the pools of sunshine in spare moments by the windows. Still, all that warmth couldn’t combat the chill of the night.

On that night, he hadn’t worn socks to the kitchen. He tracked over the freezing floor for the meal kits the survivors had moved indoors from the outside compound. Sonia’s idea, which he was more than thankful for at the moment. She had been groomed from birth to lead and she handled it with a firm grace he lacked on his worst days. After exiting the Neo World Program, the pressure was on for him to lead, and she had helped pick up the slack. She was his co-commander, to Soda’s chagrin. 

Kazuichi had fixed up the life-sustaining facility with relative ease. Sure, there was the week they didn’t have hot water, but all things considered they were grateful. There was a military base outside of the game, with equal amounts of fuel and rations. It was meant to feed an army, so they had a few years before they had to consider alternative food sources. Not that Akane wasn’t working on it. 

Hajime’s work was different from the island labors in that it required mental stamina. He’d been burning both sides of the candle to keep hope up in a hopeless situation, managing communications with Makoto to monitoring the virtual world. While Fuyuhiko helped Akane clean up the island, Soda repaired the fishing vessels, and Sonia decorated their lab-turned-home, Hajime had to think. It would be easier than ever for one of them to stop moving, to start thinking about their friends sealed silent in vats, so he worked double time to keep a smile on their faces. 

If there was one thing that Hajime the Dropout Reserve Department Student knew, it was that when you stop moving, you drown. Like schoolwork. Turn in one late assignment, suddenly all of your other projects are set back. Then to catch up, you isolate yourself from friends. You get frustrated. You slip up. You’re stressed and distanced from those that care from you. Then another assignment comes in late. He was constantly fighting the tide, more worried than ever about falling—failing—and he hadn’t addressed the mountain of personal issues swimming in his head.

It was getting to him. 

But nighttime was his time. Midnight was when Makoto checked in before bedtime. The Ultimate Hope lived up to his title; the messages were so personal and heartfelt he couldn’t help but smile. The light of his tablet lit up the room as he walked to the rice cooker and put a few spoonfuls into a small bowl. Makoto either didn’t know or didn’t care how late it was on Jabberwock, but he didn’t ask. And that was enough of a comfort in and of itself. 

He pulled up a stool at the kitchen island, half-asleep and skimming his emails. He didn’t trust video or voice calls anymore, not after Ibuki. A lot of little things were like that after the game. 

Here he was, thoughts returning to Neo World. He was trying to be distracted and happy. He stirred and mashed his rice together while his stomach complained. If he didn’t eat now, he’d get behind. There was a surgical procedure to this sort of thing.

_(I’m kind of dick, aren’t I?)_

He tucked his hair back behind his ears and started his dinner-breakfast. 

“Itadakimasu.”

-  


The first thing he said when he woke up was his name:

“Hinata Hajime.”

His throat burned at the first time in weeks he’d spoken, and in a different way, the first time in years. His hair cascaded in front of his face and down his back. Everything was so loud, so much all at once.

Most of all, it was cold.

Three adults stood above his virtual coffin, with only one smiling. He offered his hand.

“Makoto Naegi. We’re going to be friends!”

Hajime believed him. Despite not moving for a month his body responded to his movements, and he blinked his heterochromatic eyes. He took the hand and began to rise, ignoring the greater instinct to sink his fingernails into his neck.

_(they stopped it they stopped it they stopped the plan kill him kill him now—)_

No. That was not the future he chose.

“Thank you, Makoto.”

-

Cold brought back memories. Not in vivid pictures, but echoes of thoughts that he worked to bury. The idea of something sharp. The sound of something getting closer. The sound of drumming fingernails on a hard surface. 

Memories made eating alone difficult.

He let himself remember something better to tide himself over. The hotel restaurant always smelled of citrus and cooked meats. Sunshine, it felt like sunshine. In stark contrast to the silence he was in, the dark before the birds began to sing, the restaurant was bustling with activity. Soda’s awkward flirting attempts, Hiyoko wanting last minute advice on her hair, Tanaka’s fierce cadence paired with Sonia’s lovely voice, Mahiru snapping a few group photos in the background while the waves crashed onto the shore, and Mioda’s fidgeting. Even Komaeda’s presence.

Komaeda had managed to make Hajime miss him. The world must really have ended twice.

He gripped the bowl tighter.

Still, rice isn’t a tropical buffet. The military rations were a mix of bland coffee, hard grains, chocolate, and artificial drinks meant to invoke the flavor of an orange that instead taste like the color itself. It was _dull_. The entire island was much more colorful, more vibrant, in the virtual world. He wondered how much of that was perception and how much was truth.

He checked his inbox. Nothing new from Makoto. Phones were nice, at least. The constant connection gave him a sense of security previously unfound. He’d found on more than one occasion he would check in with friends a room away just to know they were still there.

He swiped through several photos he’d taken since waking up. Finally getting to swim with Akane, Sonia, and Fuyuhiko. The accidental picture of his feet running to Kazuichi after he shut the grill on his hand. Sonia’s sing-along breakfast, a long, exhausting story but a happy memory. A smile crept up the sides of his face, soft and gentle.

He checked his inbox again. Makoto was supposed to check up by now.

The smile wiped away.

Hajime swallowed, and dropped his chopsticks to type. The previous email above was typical. It didn’t show any sign of danger, right? He might as well reread—just to refresh his memory—definitely not the fear slowly swelling in his chest.

“Don’t panic, he’s busy, stupid.”

He really needed to stop talking to himself. It was getting pathetic, and his emotions hardly ever matched up.

-

_‘Hinata-san,_

_I bet you’re probably feeling really down right now. Don’t ask how I know, I’ve told you! I’m psychic. I know when you get a miracle to start with (your memories, changing yourselves, your hope) another one seems right around the bend._

_It’s hard to imagine it’s been half a year. Think of how much has happened! Kyoko says we might be able to visit soon, too! The island wasn’t much while we were there, so I can’t wait to see what you’ve all done. It feels like all we either do is waiting or meetings._

_Speaking of which, we might need to schedule another meeting. Future Foundation heads want to see how you’re doing. I’ll hold them off as long as I can, but they’re kind of persistent. However, I think if we do this, we might be able to secure whatever they have on the ‘I.K’ project. It’s your call, don’t push yourself._

_You’re a good leader for them, even when you doubt it._

_\- Naegi M.’_

-

That Future Foundation was the largest _inconvenience_ looming over his life at the moment. He still had mixed feelings on them, from the initial distrust and traitor talk, to finding out Makoto was part of it and trying to help, to the more complete truth that the Foundation hadn’t believed in them at all. They held all the power in this situation.

He was sick of being toyed with.

Then there was Makoto.

Hajime had come to see Makoto as more than a friend. More than a rock, more than a guiding light. More than the Ultimate Hope, with whatever that title was supposed to mean at this point. He’d never admit it to anyone else, but Makoto was the little brother he’d never had, who pushed himself too hard and came out on top every time. He was strong, determined, and not the least bit jaded at how others seeing him.

Everything he’d wanted to be.

There was envy again. In his Hope’s Peak high school classes, envy was called ‘the green-eyed monster’. A reference to an old poet or bard that lived a thousand years ago. Hajime could never picture envy with green eyes. Blue, caked with too much mascara and garnished with a wide grin? Maybe. Red? Definitely. The more he found himself trying to ignore it, the more it got to him, as he grabbed his bowl tighter, tighter, tighter—

Crack.

Hair slipped from his bun into the broken pieces and mush.

He sighed. At least he didn’t think he was going to finish that rice.

“That’s the fifth one.”

There was the elephant in the room; he was fundamentally different than he’d been in the game. Where he struggled to help move boxes or organize, now he found that he slammed cups down onto tables with enough force to fracture them. He pulled open doors far too quickly. Even his jogs around the island didn’t wear him down like they used to after a few practice laps with Akane. Of course, if it was only the physical differences, he could handle that. Maybe. The inevitable conclusion was that this was different—he was different—and it was never going back. Nothing was going back to the way it was in the game.

Ever.

Hajime was not interested in seeing what he could do (he told himself). He was interested in how he could help return his friends to the real world. Who cares if everything he tried came to him easier, who cares if the challenges in his life were either too easy or virtually impossible? He wasn’t doing it for selfish reasons.

They had all lost so much. Because of him. He didn’t care if this was grief or some token attempt at selfishness, but he’d rather collapse under the weight of the Future Foundation’s assignments trying to fix it than stop. No one else was going to carry that burden.

Hajime shivered. The cold; it had to be the cold.

He picked up the pieces and walked to the trash can.

It was time to stop slacking off and get back to work. He’d explain the broken dishware later. Their problems weren’t going to change while he moped around, _bored_. He sifted the pieces into the trash, careful to not let any fall to the floor. Then he noticed the jagged cut across his left hand.

_(Great, get your life together Hajime.)_

He flexed his finger and pain jolted down his hand. It didn’t look that bad. Beads of blood dripped from the low scratch and onto the floor. The gash was skin-deep, superficial. Another worry on his list. At least this one was easy to take care of.

Hajime headed to the bathroom. There was a first aid kit under the sink for minor inconveniences; the first precaution they’d taken was stash the hospital’s medical supplies in easy-to-get places. Hajime didn’t let himself think about the worst-case scenario.

He turned on the water and positioned the kit on the edge of the sink. A few fragments of whatever the bowl was made of (plastic, a tiny part of his brain supplied) was lodged in his finger, but it came out without problem. It shouldn’t scar, but it would certainly be annoying. He could handle annoying. He’d been handling annoying ever since he arrived on this island, and even afterwards when they’d made him leader for some—

Hinata glanced up at the mirror.

Everything stopped.

His hair. How had he let his hair get this long, even with the hair tie he’d borrowed from Sonia-san? Long enough to cover his green eye, long enough to wisp down his face in a way that was too little of an annoyance to care about. How had he forgotten the reason he avoided reflective surfaces entirely, the reason he hesitated when washing his hair in the shower? Only red shone back at him, muted and dull and _disinterested_.

 _He_ was in the mirror.

If it hadn’t been that time of night, or perhaps if Hajime hadn’t been on a negative train of thought, or if he hadn’t injured himself, or if a million ifs, ands, ors, and buts. The undeniable truth was that Hajime was staring face-to-face with Izuru Kamukura.

No, no. It wasn’t _him_.

_(It couldn’t be him. He’s not here. I haven’t even been acting like him, there’s no way. . .)_

Hajime’s breath quickened. His thoughts jumped back to the past few hours:

Dull.

Inconvenience.

Bored.

_Bored._

Kamukura had been there all along. He been running on default, pushing himself for energy that he, Hinata Hajime, wouldn’t have. He was pushing himself to be the leader, a leader he couldn’t be. Reflected before him was someone he’d never wanted to see again. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak.

He swore it blinked.

Right in front of him, Izuru Kamukura, and his head is burning in pain:

Failure. Nodding in agreement. The scars around his scalp, the cuts along his skull. The two dark dots beside his eyes he’d long pretended were freckles in the sun; the following lobotomies to chisel out any resistant gray matter. His parents, wanting his parents. Stainless steel. Both tools and rods. The taste of metal. Recovery in a white ward. Isolation in a black classroom. The school suit. Desperation. Despair. The culmination of his choices with no one else to blame. He’s screaming but he can’t hear a thing, and suddenly they’ve killed him, murdered him, Hinata Hajime is dead, and his corpse is dancing for them, for her—

Without any thought or care, Hajime curled his fist into a ball and punched the mirror.

“No, that’s wrong!”

-

He’s dancing.

There isn’t any music, not in the traditional sense. There is only the distant sound of car alarms and the subtle symphony of screaming.

Junko is humming.

It is the concerto of calamity at the end of the world.

Her hand is at his waist, with his on her shoulders. She occasionally breaks out into giggles. Their swaying is a mockery of a waltz, which he can mimic with inhuman perfection and she never properly learned. He’s certain his suit has droplets of blood on it.

“Isn’t this _fuuuuuun_?” She trills, and he finds himself nodding. “We’re going to do So. Much. Together.”

This is the beginning of the tragedy and he is the orchestra to which the conductor waves.

The world smells of chemical ash. The skyscrapers around them are made of thousands of materials, hundreds of which are carcinogens. The wound they have cut into this world will leave its scar decades into the future, perhaps centuries. He’s never tasted anything quite like it, so different from food yet satisfying a primal need all the same.

Her eyes look blue.

He can tell she’s wearing contacts by the hint of coloring in the whites of her eyes. Normal vision would be unable to detect it. A performance to the very end. Perhaps she believes it so much it has become her truth. Perhaps, perhaps. There are many perhapses with Junko. A fraction of her true iris peeks through.

Her eyes are red.

He knows he’s taller than her, but she still leans over him. Her heels. He had forgotten how the outside felt; the air, the lighting. None of them interest him. Instead, he focuses on how Enoshima’s heart rate jumps and then falls. He watches as her micro-expressions shift with token amounts of joy and happiness. He has no clue what she’s feeling.

The idea almost makes him smile.

Their feet move back and forth as smoke billows from another rooftop. The Ultimate Despair leans back and he dips her, hands falling to her waist. She fakes swooning and laughs. It almost sounds genuine. He pulls her back up, and she takes his hand to twirl him.

“Who were you.” It is not a question. It is an inquest.

Her smile contorts to an expression snarkier. He turns for her, then she pulls him close.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it? I killed her. That’s that. She clearly wasn’t worth whatever she was if she couldn’t fight back.” If he catches her off-guard, she doesn’t show it.

For a moment, he thinks he understands. He shouldn’t even be thinking at all, but if he could feel, he would feel valuable. Needed. Perhaps, as most others seduced by Junko’s words, even loved.

The true danger of Junko Enoshima is her offer of belonging. If anyone were to look up to the sky and see them dancing, silhouetted by the sunset, they might be perceived as lovers. That thought makes him exhale in the echo of a chuckle. No, Enoshima will never love in the way that humans do.

Even so, what a novel concept.

Loved as he was.

_(No, no no no, no—)_

-

The sound of waves crashed against the shore.

They had been walking on the pier. The island was desaturated, empty in color and presence. Whether that was how Jabberwock looked at the time or his outlook, he couldn’t recall. His steps were weightless, planned with efficiency. The guard at his right is about to sigh and make a pessimistic remark, and the waves will keep pushing to and fro at two-fourths signature.

It was painfully boring.

_(It wasn’t boring, it was a paradise! It was bright, it was gentle! A-and the ocean was teal. I’d never seen the ocean before—)_

His wrists are bound in handcuffs. As if that could do anything to stop him, as if he did not choose to come to this island of his own free will. The very idea unsettled him. This Future Foundation had no idea what they had acquired or what they were wasting.

He would be sailing away from this island within the month.

The rest after that is not worth describing. He stayed within his own thoughts as they moved him across the island and into the heart of their hopes. Another mistake.

As the fools prepared the Program, he looked over at the Remnants. He had heard and assumed about them, of course, but he had never had the displeasure of meeting them. Except the white-haired one, but that was an entirely different kind of displeasure. He held himself back in self-hatred only for that to loop back into more self-hatred.

Otherwise, they were not what he expected. It was fitting that they would soon be vessels for Enoshima. They would be better for it. The Remnants of Despair were sedated, currently. He had a higher drug tolerance, instead merely slowed by the concoction they were injected with. He hated grouping himself with them. Even by convenience.

The room gave off a garish green glow. Their pods for the game felt alien, threatening, and the stem was a patchwork of computer parts and cables. He knew it worked as intended from the first time he laid eyes upon it, but he wouldn’t fault a lesser person for assuming it was a pipe dream. It had the fingerprints of Ultimate students all over it.

Finally, when the trio in charge of the grunts that had escorted them began to argue amongst themselves again, he made his move.

_(—stop stop stop STOP STOP YOU’LL KILL THEM YOU’LL KILL ALL OF US—)_

Kamukura flicked his wrists with precision and the cuffs unlocked. With smooth dexterity he plucked the flash drive hidden in a false coat pocket Enoshima designed. It bore the Monokuma branding, white and harmless on one side while dark and grinning on the other. She had insisted he use this specific flash drive, pushing aside his immediate argument of noticeability.

_“Izuru, of course they won’t notice it! You won’t give them anything to notice.”_

She was right again. What was the point of his luck if he never used it? Realistically the Future Foundation should discover the killing game standard drive, but realism seldom had effect on him.

His eyes kept watch on the door as he moved over to the terminal ports. As he inserted the USB, his ears picked up the conversation happening on the other side:

“This is idiotic. If you were suggesting they live in this. . . this ‘Neo World’ then I would condone that, but rehabilitation?”

“For once, I respectfully concur with Togami. This is beyond dangerous, Makoto.”

“I know if we give them another shot, they can change! Remember how everyone looked at you two?”

That voice. That was the Naegi that had defeated Enoshima. He was optimistic. Naïve. Something similar to curiosity stirred in him as his head tilted to the side. He instantly crushed it. It didn’t matter. What use was the Ultimate Hope against the Ultimate Talent? It was almost a shame they couldn’t watch what was about to unfold.

He returned to his seat and slipped the handcuffs back on.

Someone shuffled.

Kamukura’s head shot over.

_(Are you fucking kidding me.)_

Komaeda, with his eyes in a drugged haze, looked at him. Slowly, the ends of his mouth curled up into a silent laugh. They sat there for a moment. Then another, until Komaeda’s eyes shut again.

All Kamukura could do was stare at that well-manicured arm hanging limp.

_(I don’t want to know any more. I don’t want to **be** any more.)_

-

“Hey hey, cool guy. Don’t be down. You can do it.”

“What do I do? What is _it_? I’m. . . tired. I’m so tired!”

“If you’re just Izuru Kamukura, then I’m just an AI. Which do you want it to be?”

“. . .”

“Maybe you need a nap, Hajime.”

-

“—ata? Hinata?! Hajime!”

Hajime was on the real Jabberwock island curled in the corner of his closet in his room.

“Chiaki?”

Orange sunlight streamed through the windows of his cabin. It was midday, and Sonia, Akane, and Soda stood above him. Fuyuhiko was at his side—the only side not pressed up against the wall—shaking him.

“No, you bastard. Kuzuryu. Are you back with us?”

Hajime blinked. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

The room blossomed into uncomfortable silence. Sonia’s face was pained, with her hand moving to cover her face. Soda spoke first,

“Man, your hands.”

Hajime curled his fingers instinctively and almost screamed. His hands were ripped to shreds, the blood dried but bits of glass glinting like gems in the light. This was a lot worse than a simple gash from a rice bowl.

“Oh.”

To top it off, he sounded like an idiot. Wasn’t the goal to make his friends less concerned about him, not more?

“I mean, we heard you screaming too. That’s why we came in the first place.” Soda scratched the back of his head. Hajime contemplated for a second.

“How long have you been here?”

“A few minutes. Fuyuhiko kicked in the door.” And now his lock was broken in real life too.

“That’s Baby Gangsta for ya!” Akane was trying to lighten the mood, and Hajime was more than happy to let her.

He shifted to sit up. Fuyuhiko pulled back to give him room.

At some point during the night, he had grabbed a cover and wrapped himself in it. The top blanket from his bed pressed against his shoulder as he moved. He had hidden in the furthest corner he could think, pulling his pillow along with him. His sheets would definitely need to be washed. And he’d just done the laundry, too.

Now he could see the bathroom, though.

The first aid kit was abandoned on the floor, and the mirror was cracked to bits. The imprint of his first swing was clear, but what he hadn’t realized were all the subsequent hits. He’d slammed his fists until there was no way to discern a clear image. Drops of blood littered the tile floor, following him to the closet.

There was no easy way to explain this.

“What happened, Hajime?” Sonia asked, kneeling down beside him.

“I-I saw. . . Look, it’s nothing.” He forced a smile and then pushed to stand up. Fuyuhiko supported him as Soda took the dirty blanket and pillow. Hajime took a deep breath. “I thought I saw something, and I didn’t.”

“Pardon the inference, but this is hardly the typical response to an unusual sighting, is it not?”

Part of him wanted them all to go away and leave him to his personal troubles. A different part of him knew how unfair that would be, to push them away then ask to help in their own afflictions. After all, trust was letting others in when one was vulnerable.

He decided to tell them. Not everything. It was better than nothing and being the local pity case, though.

“I remembered some things. Not a lot. Enough.”

“What about?” She continued.

_(Here it comes.)_

“Me.”

_(Him.)_

That same silence returned, heavier than the blankets or the darkness of the previous night had been. Hajime hated the look on Sonia’s face, and it didn’t help he was a moment away from crying, even though he was sure he’d been crying last night.

It was Akane, gloriously inglorious Akane who never thought outside of herself, who saved them.

“Well, what can we do to help?”

“I don’t know.” It was a stupid answer.

Fuyuhiko pushed up against his shoes in thought. “What started the flashbacks?”

Hajime didn’t have to think about that one.

“My hair.” That long, dark hair that looked black in the moonlight. He’d cut it a week ago by himself. It had outgrown the messy appearance before anyone could comment. It had to be a result of whatever they’d done to him at Hope’s Peak.

Fuyuhiko grinned. “That’s easy! Sonia could cut your hair.”

“I would very much like to!” She beamed. “Alas, I do not know how. My hair was always groomed for me.”

“But ya always have it in that fancy braid!”

“I can braid it, but I feel that is not what Hajime wishes.”

“Who here’s given themselves a haircut?” Fuyuhiko said, looking around the room.

Soda’s nervous laughter started. The other three turned towards him as he clasped his hands together.

“I lived on my own before the thing, so, I? I could do it?” When he received no response, he continued: “If you don’t mind, Hajime.”

Hajime smiled.

“No, I don’t mind at all. I trust you, Soda.” He laughed, cold. “I think I need fingernail clippers, too.” He could almost hear echoes of nails tapping against a desk in a rhythm.

Akane put a hand on his shoulder.

“You had me worried, Hajime! Thought I was gonna have to slap you for a second!”

Hajime kept smiling but inwardly shuddered. An Akane slap was to be feared.

“I don’t think it’ll ever come to that.”

The tension was lifted somewhat. Fuyuhiko nodded, and continued, “I’ll prepare lunch, then. You two can join us when you’re done.”

“Lunch? What time is it?”

“Nearly two.”

He didn’t have a response for that. Instead, he felt like he could taste chemical ash in his mouth.

-

It’s difficult to cut hair on its own. It’s even more difficult when mirrors aren’t involved. Hajime insisted Soda not use one. Soda had a hard time understanding. Finally, they had moved to Soda’s workshop, which was mirror-free.

“I’m not good at this,” Soda hesitated, “You really good?”

“At cutting hair? Maybe we should get someone else.” It wasn’t that Hajime didn’t trust Soda, it’s that he didn’t trust Soda at things unrelated to machines.

“No, no! At. . . at emotional talk.”

“You don’t have to talk to me. You shouldn’t—” He was not in the mood to hear Soda’s attempts at comforts. His words went unheeded.

“I really worry about you, Hajime.” He scrunched his face up. Soda was never this transparent, and it looked like it was physically hurting him. “I mean, we’re here together. Miss Sonia said you were shouldering a lot, and I feel like I could help more.”

“Soda.” The only thing worse than being unable to cut Kazuichi off from speaking is not being able to cut Kazuichi off from speaking while he’s holding scissors, cutting his hair.

“This seems like a really big issue that you’re keeping from the rest of us and I don’t want you turning around and going all Kamukura on our asses.”

“Soda, stop.”

“I mean if you think about it, I was kind of right with the traitor talk and—"

“Soda, you’re _really_ bad at this.”

“Done.”

“What?”

_(That was too quick. I’m bald now.)_

“It’s as short as it was. You look like a chestnut again.”

Gingerly, Hajime reached up to feel his hair. He patted a few times, then a few more. Even his ahoge had returned. His shoulders fell, relaxed. Soda seemed not to notice. He continued with his diatribe, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jumpsuit.

“I know this is girl stuff, but. . .”

“Soda.”

“What?”

Hajime smiled, true and bright.

“Thank you.”

Soda hugged him. Hajime held him back. Even if it wasn’t very manly, who was here to tell them otherwise?

-

Hajime waited until the others had fallen asleep that night.

It was a full moon on Jabberwock Island, which meant it was easier to walk around at nighttime than ever. After checking for prying eyes, he slipped out of the front hotel gate and headed for the Program.

He hadn’t been there since waking up. Sonia had gone, he knew, for Gundam. Fuyuhiko had gone for Peko. Soda had gone to talk to others when he ran out of topics for the survivors. He supposed there was no reason for him to have gone sooner, even if a throbbing pain told him otherwise. It was a horrifying, heat-sink of a building where the countdown had been in the park. Hajime lingered on the outside. A building couldn’t hurt you. There was no malice or ill intent inside.

_(Just twelve lost causes. And her.)_

Hajime retraced the steps he remembers through _his_ eyes, following the wall. The door remained the same, a simple cardboard-wood creation with an observation window. He wasn’t supposed to go without telling someone. Usually Sonia. Hajime figured he deserves a break from the rules for a minute and headed inside regardless.

The first thing he notices is their bodies look different from their avatars in the game. Saionji did have a growth spurt, and Tanaka’s hair is longer, bleached. The Impostor is impossible to discern through the light of their container. They look the same, but different. All of them.

Hajime managed to tear himself away from their forms and walk between their virtual prisons. Part of him wanted nothing more than for the stick to have disappeared, out of sight, out of mind, out of this reality entirely.

He was not so fortunate.

The red eye of the Monokuma blinked from its spot on the mountain of hardware. Hajime gripped it and pulled it out. Then he looked down.

Komaeda was smiling in his casket.

Hajime jumped, then told himself off. If Komaeda knew he’d gotten that kind of reaction, Hajime would never live it down. Of course, the drive was right above this pod. Luckily his eyes were closed, as if that would make a difference in Komaeda being able to perceive him.

“Is this your idea of a last laugh?”

Hajime really had to break that habit of talking to himself.

Komaeda was skinnier than he appeared in the game. Hajime briefly checks the monitors for Komaeda’s vitals, because he’s so _pale_ , but all is in order.

Hajime wondered if Komaeda’s eyes were once red. Before disease and despair sunk in.

The walk back is filled with thoughts he tries to push away.

He should tell Makoto, Kirigiri, or Togami. He should throw it into the sea. He should drop the flash drive on to the tile and stomp it underneath his foot over and over until it’s a million pieces.

But he didn’t.

Hajime walked the familiar route back to his cabin. His feet felt heavier. The waves were muted in the background, and his steps were imperfect. The world around him followed no rhythm, no set beat he could decipher. The sunlight on the island was warm.

All that was cold rested in his palm.

Hajime clutched it with a death grip, as if it would fall like sand from his fingers, or seep into the air and water like a pollutant. He placed the Monokuma flash drive in his nightstand and shut the drawer and tried not to think of what his reflection looked like in the plastic. That banished the problem for the time being.

He checked his phone.

-

_‘Hinata-san,_

_I hope you’ve had a good morning, I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you last night, I’m nearly positive you were awake again. Make sure to get some sleep._

_It’s great that you’re thinking about participating! I’ll let them know you’re interested, and don’t worry, we’ll keep away any of the weirder requests. Maybe don’t mention how frequently we’ve been talking, though._

_Kyoko and I are visiting next week! Byakuya can’t make it. He’s the reason we’re getting to go in the first place, covering our work and all that stuff. Don’t tell him I said this (typed?) but he’s basically our secretary at this point!_

_By the way! If my emails are too formal, let me know! I think I’m getting used to the corporate lifestyle._

_Any updates on your friends?_

_\- Naegi M.’_

-

_‘Makoto,_

_Remember, you don’t have to keep calling me Hinata-san. I might be older than you, but we’re friends, right?_

_It was an okay night. No updates._

_Can’t wait to see you again._

_\- Hajime’_

**Author's Note:**

> my sister and i are creating dr content five years late to the party so check out @dengerfrog on insta and twitter


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